


The Loss of Time

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Season 3 Christmas Special, Terminal Illnesses, Unidentified illness, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I am awake. I am coherent,” Mycroft said, though Greg could hear his voice slipping into a lower register, the ends of his words curling into something slurred and bitter. “I want to stay with you.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“I don’t want you to leave either,” Greg said softly. </i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“I want to stay with you for all time,” Mycroft muttered, eyes flitting from side to side behind his closed lids, throat working as he fought to swallow. “I love you.”  <i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loss of Time

**Author's Note:**

> I read an excellent meta that matched up with my own theories about how Mycroft was going to die after the special. This is the result of that. 
> 
> As a side note, hydrangeas are meant to represent true heartfelt emotions. Such as the love one brother may have for the other, despite how much he might pretend otherwise.  
> And as another side note, John is a bit clueless.

“Look after him. Look after him, John. Please.”

“Yeah. Course,” Greg said, wetting his lips, voice shaking. “Yeah.”

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft smiled faintly, laying his head to the side. “I knew you would.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Yeah, course,” he repeated as Mycroft fell into the indescribable sleep of those ill, nearing something more permanent, but for the moment tremulous and distinctly light. He slid his hand onto the bed, twining their fingers together.

“Greg?” John asked quietly from the doorway.

“He thought he was talking to you just now,” Greg said, voice thick, throat clogged with unshed tears. “Telling you to take care of him, Sherlock, you know. When did he ask you that?”

“On the plane. When Sherlock was coming back...had come back and there was all that mess with the...never mind that,” John replied. “Does he realize...at all?”

Greg shook his head and stood, Mycroft’s hand slipping from his hold. “He’s got no idea who I am most of the time now. They said it could happen any time now. Any day.”

“Come on, Greg. You know it’s just the medication. Memory lapses. Major side effect. He still knows you, somewhere in that big brain,” John said. “Right. Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?”

Greg nodded, dimming the lights in the hall a bit more as they went out. “He’ll probably sleep for the night now,” Greg said. “He’s sleeping so much.”

“Another side effect,” John said, following him down the hall to the kitchen.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s in the gardens,” John replied. “Something about hydrangeas?”

Greg bit back a sob. “Right. Hydrangeas.”

John set his hand gingerly on Greg’s shoulder. “It’s not...It’s not easy. Losing a mate like that. You’re his friend, I know, and there’s not much time left.”

Greg shook him off, gaze going to the calendar on the fridge where he’d been marking off each day as it passed, ‘a few months’ turning into ‘soon’ turning into ‘any day now’.

“You don’t know anything, John.”

“I’m just trying-”

“You are just making a fool of yourself,” Sherlock said, stepping inside, shaking off a few drops of rain from his coat, hydrangeas in hand. “Lestrade and my brother are… lovers,” he said, lip curling. “Which, while I don’t approve of sentiment, I must admit, they are-”

“Oh shut up, Sherlock,” Greg snapped, turning to him. “You just shut up, with your, your bloody ego. You’ve a fucking superiority complex, and do you know what? It’s not fucking enough is it? You want to be alone forever, fine. But it’s not bloody proving anything. Bringing in fucking hydrangeas, I know what they mean. Fuck off. Being alone, being lonely. It gets you killed, Sherlock. Gets you left out in the cold. You owe your brother your life, more than once, yeah? So just shut the hell up, and try to pretend you care for once! He’s fucking dying in there, and you’re being a prat, pretending you’re untouchable. You’re not. You are not. No one is, dammit. So just fuck off, the both of you, if you’re not going to at least try, yeah?”

John gaped as Greg glared at them both, and then turned on his heel, stomping away. “Sherlock, what the-Greg, wait, I’m sure-”

Greg ignored him, going back down the hall, and into his bedroom, sinking down on the edge of the bed.

Mycroft stirred a bit. “Gregory?” he mumbled, trying to open his eyes.

“Yeah, love?” Greg said quietly, surprised that Mycroft was awake again. “I’m here, My.”

“Don’ leave,” Mycroft slurred. “‘M cold.”

“I know, love,” Greg said, pulling up the blanket folded at the end of the bed and shaking it out over Mycroft. “Want me to lie down and sleep with you for a bit?”

Mycroft smiled, the curve of his lips barely there, barely readable in the deep lines of his face. “Yes.”

Greg took a breath and laid down, pillowing his head on one arm, and slinging the other gently over Mycroft’s chest. “I love you,” he murmured, pressing his lips gently to Mycroft’s hollow cheek.

“My Gregory,” Mycroft managed to breath out, raising a trembling hand up, putting it over Greg’s as it rested over his heart. “My Gregory.”

“Yeah. Always been yours, haven’t I?” Greg asked quietly, stroking his thumb slowly up and down, listening to Mycroft’s breath, how each came harder than the last. “And you’ll always be mine.”

“Yours.” Mycroft turned slightly, eyes springing open with sudden clarity. “Gregory.”

“My?” Greg asked, searching his eyes, concern leaching into his voice at the strength of Mycroft's.

“Gregory, promise me.”

“What, My? Anything,”

“Look after him.”

“After Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded, then shook his head. “Yes. But not only Sherlock. Take care of yourself, Gregory. I do not want you to be sad with my passing.”

“I will be sad,” Greg murmured, listening as the rain began to hit the house with more force, listening as the breath caught in Mycroft’s chest, rattling around his ribs. “I can’t lock it away like you, My.”

“I don’t lock it away,” Mycroft replied. “I lock it down until I can examine it.” He tried for a smile, but grimaced. Greg recognized the look of pain flitting through his eyes, and reached out toward the bottle standing on the bedside table, only to have Mycroft stop him. “No more medication, Gregory, please. I can stand the pain. But I cannot stand the loss of time.”

Greg faltered. “The loss of time?”

“I am awake. I am coherent,” Mycroft said, though Greg could hear his voice slipping into a lower register, the ends of his words curling into something slurred and bitter. “I want to stay with you.”

“I don’t want you to leave either,” Greg said softly.

“I want to stay with you for all time,” Mycroft muttered, eyes flitting from side to side behind his closed lids, throat working as he fought to swallow. “I love you.”

“I know,” Greg said, watching carefully, heart catching, wanting to stop, wanting to pause so he wouldn’t have to watch anymore if _now_ was the time. “I know, love.”

“I’m so bloody tired,” Mycroft said, voice no less bitter, no less slurred as he slumped against Greg. “I’m so bloody...bloody...tired….” He trailed off, and Greg released a breath.

Greg closed his own eyes, fighting tears that he’d been fighting off since that very first day, listening to the rain battering the shutters. There was a quiet tap on the door, and John stepped in, Greg glancing at him. “In case he’s able to eat anything,” he said, and set a covered bowl down. “Just vegetable broth. There’s something a bit more substantial for you downstairs.”

“‘M not hungry,” Greg sighed, closing his eyes again.

“Right.” John hesitated. “Greg. I’m sorry. About earlier. I didn’t-”

“Get out, John.”

Mycroft shifted anxiously at the ice in Greg’s voice and the sound of John shutting the door again, weak hands tightening on Greg’s shirt.

Greg immediately soothed him, humming the first song that came to mind. Mycroft stilled, his unconscious filtering the song down, recognizing Greg’s voice, the tune and taking the comfort it was meant to give.

Greg kept up the quiet refrain for a bit, waiting to stop until Mycroft’s breathing settled into something a bit more stable, slightly deeper. There was another quiet tap on the door soon after, and Anthea slipped in.

“How is he?”

“Any day now, but you already knew that,” Greg said, gently shifting to look at her. “How is Britain?”

“In capable hands.”

Greg shared a faint smile. “Course it is. You got it spinning on your string already, don't you?”

“As it always has been.” Anthea gave a sharp grin that faded almost immediately. “And as far as anyone knows, he is already gone. You aren't in any danger here, though after your period of mourning passes, you may become a target. We’ll have to discuss security.”

“I know,” Greg murmured. “Keep your voice down, yeah?”

“Apologies,” Anthea replied. She hesitated then came forward. “Is there anything I can do? You know my power.”

Greg shook his head minutely. “If there was anything to be done, it would have been done already. You know that.”

“I meant to make him, and you, more comfortable.”

“I don't think so,” Greg said. “Not really anything to do in this case, is there? I dunno, not my division this.” He cracked a smile, feeling a laugh bubbling up, stealing the air from his lungs and choking him with the taste of bile.

“I understand,” Anthea said. “For what it is worth, Inspector Lestrade…you made him happy. And in turn, a better man.”

“Thank you, Anthea,” Greg murmured, reaching out a hand and grasping hers. “What you’ve done to give us this time, without him worrying about all the things he’d been taking care of before... just, thank you. And thank you for being here. I couldn’t watch him go alone.”

Anthea nodded. “I will stay here tonight,” she said as Greg released her hand. “In case I am...needed.”

“It’ll be soon,” Greg said, swallowing. “I can tell. Feel it in the air. Always could tell. I think he can too.”

“It would not surprise me,” Anthea replied. “Observation of weakness was always his strength.” Greg watched as she left the room, then closed his eyes, listening to the rain as he fell into a fitful sleep, body tense.

He startled awake a few hours later, for what reason, he didn’t know, only to realize that Mycroft’s breath was coming sharp and short, and his face was contorted in pain.

Greg’s own breath caught, and he sat up, reaching out to Mycroft with a shaking hand. “My? Mycroft. Wake up. Shit, no, no, not now,” he panted, unable to wake Mycroft, unable to stop his heart from feeling like it was sinking, being pulled from his chest and broken on the floorboards. “Mycroft! Mycroft, please! I need more time, I need more time, it-I can’t lose you now!”

The light in the hall came on, spilling into the room as Anthea came in, followed by Sherlock and John. The three stood at the door, Anthea simply watching, mobile in hand. Sherlock frozen in place, barefoot and flushed and wide eyed as a child would be. John stood a bit in front of him, subconsciously protecting him from the scene before them, from his brother in his last unconcious moments.

Greg ignored them all, still pleading with Mycroft to wake up, even as his chest stopped with one last sharp intake of breath. Greg collapsed onto Mycroft’s body, his own shaking as dry, silent, sobs wracked his body, as he clutched at the sickly, empty husk, begging.

“Inspector,” Anthea murmured, stepping forward after his shaking had slowed to trembling. “Inspector, you must let him go.”

Greg shook his head mutely, Mycroft’s hands in his own, shielding him from the men who stood at the door. John had guided Sherlock a few steps to the right, out of the way of the stretcher as they pulled it in.

“Gregory,” Anthea said, voice quietly commanding. “He is gone. He would not want this.”

Greg shook his head again, and Anthea gently pried his fingers from Mycroft’s, gently pulled him from the bed and gently guided him stand at the end. Greg fought her half heartedly, a sob tugged from his chest as the two men carefully lifted Mycroft’s body from the bed, strapping it down on the stretcher.

“Wait, wait, please!” Greg begged, voice cracking as he broke Anthea’s hold, going over to the stretcher, bending over, clutching Mycroft’s hand to his chest, leaning down and brushing a shaky kiss over his lips. “You can’t...don’t take him yet,” Greg managed. “He’ll get cold.”

“Gregory-”

Greg ignored John’s frown of concern and Anthea’s worried tone, gathering a blanket from the bed, woven wool, grey and soft. He laid it at Mycroft’s feet, missing the look the two men at the side of the stretcher gave each other as he pulled it up, tucking it around his legs, hips, torso.

He leaned down again, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s cheek, exhaling shakily. “I wanted so much more time,” he murmured. “I wanted...so much more time with you. I love you, Mycroft Holmes. Always was yours.” He stood, and swallowed hard, taking two staggering steps backward, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock suddenly startled and walked over to the bedside table. He picked up the small glass bottle of morphine, and turned, handing it to John before leaving the room, following the stretcher and the nameless men. John looked at the bottle, then to Greg, then to where Sherlock had exited. “If you need something,” John said quietly, pocketing the bottle. “Ask, yeah? Sometimes, it’s necessary.”

“I will look after him, doctor Watson,” Anthea said, stepping forward. “Mind Sherlock if you please. It will be...difficult for him.”

John glanced at Greg again, and then nodded, leaving.

“Do they know?” Greg asked. “About the suit he wanted?”

Anthea set a hand on his shoulder. “It has already been delivered to the funeral home. Everything is prepared. He took care of it many months ago.”

Greg nodded slowly, head feeling heavy. “I could sleep now,” he said hoarsely. “For a hundred years. Might wake up after. Find out this is all a dream.”

“You will not wake up to this being a dream,” Anthea replied softly. “But if you wish to sleep, then you ought do so.”

“Can...can I stay in here?” Greg asked, hands trembling, jaw clenched as he fought the tears that were trying to fall.

“If you wish to,” Anthea replied. She guided him to lay down on the bed, tucking him in like a child.

Greg buried his face in Mycroft’s pillow, breathing in his scent, eyes squeezed shut. “How...am I supposed to do this?” he asked as Anthea sat down in the chair beside the bed.

“One day at a time,” Anthea replied. “The hole in your heart will never fill, but it will become easier with time.”

“I’m cold,” Greg said, body shaking as he fought to breath steadily.

“I know,” Anthea murmured. “You’re in a state of mild shock.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Is it ever?” Anthea asked, getting no reply. She sighed and leaned back against the wall, attention turned to the soft sounds of rain, and the small hitching breaths from the bed as Greg cried himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


End file.
